Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Two: Love, Tenderness, and Affection

There were times when a man's heart could be stopped for seeing a beautiful woman in his bedroom, when all his senses got thrown away all over the place and could not be put back, when all he could think of was crossing the distance to make her his. This was not one of those times.

The way she stood over that table made him nervous. The way she scanned the pages of his book made him feel like his poems were being judged by a master linguist looking for grammatical errors. Djari iza Zuri had that effect on him, maybe on people as a whole. Every time she glanced in his direction, it felt like there were some standards he was expected to meet and he was failing them all quite spectacularly. Perhaps also expected to fail.

Even here, now, in his own tent, covered in beautiful wolf pelt, with her hair no longer bound in those tight, constricting braids, she was the most unapproachable woman he'd ever come across. Looking at her that night, Djamal contemplated many times if he should start looking for somewhere else to sleep. He couldn't do that without saying something first, however. He might do that after, however.

"Do you always break in to read other people's stuff, iza Zuri?" he said, heading to the table to pour himself a much needed drink, and much needed was an understatement of the decade considering who was in his tent.

She kept on reading, made no attempt whatsoever to respond to that statement he'd just made. "You wrote this?" It sounded like a surprise, although he couldn't tell whether the surprise was pleasant or filled with disgust. Some women could be moved by poetry, others found it a sign of poor performance in bed.

"Do you disapprove?"

She looked up from the book, confused. "I cannot judge you for what you enjoy doing."

He wondered then if this woman had feelings about anything at all. "I see," he said with a touch of sarcasm thrown in. "Only for my horses and archers?"

She frowned. She seemed to guard none of her facial expressions, only he could never tell what they meant. "They are what I need. There's a difference."

"And you don't need my poetry."

She closed the book but held on to it, like she needed something to hold, to do. "I think it holds value for every community. Many people enjoy them."

He smiled at the answer. "Just not you."

"Do you require that a woman enjoys them to be your wife?"

"No," he told her. "But I would want to know what my wife enjoys or doesn't, there's a difference."

"It matters to you, then? To men?" she asked, in the way one might ask what a horse should be fed to make sure it didn't bloat.

Sometimes, small talks were parts of the dance men and women did before coupling. Some foreplays were needed for some people or in some circumstances. This was not one of those dances. She was here to learn, to study, to observe, not for pleasure. She didn't seem like someone who did anything for pleasure.

"It matters to me, and some men," he said, taking the book from her hand and placing it on the table. "But since I am not a man you are considering to wed, why are you here, iza Zuri?"

For the first time since their first meeting, he saw indecision in her eyes. She could do that––look levelly at him undecided, unprepared, perhaps also ashamed or embarrassed. She was not the kind of woman who looked away.

"It's Raviyani." The answer came awkwardly, as though the word didn't quite fit her tongue, like she was just learning to say it for the first time.

Djamal drew a breath at the implication, at new creatures materializing in his stomach he was certain to be venomous. He'd forgotten that the moon was full tonight, and the only reason he had been allowed to forget was because the khagan was still in mourning. No celebration would take place for at least three months, sometimes six, depending on how well-loved the lost kha'a or khumar had been. For Za'in izr Husari, the entire desert could mourn for a year and it still wouldn't feel enough.